


unintitled

by summoner_yuna_of_besaid



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Agender, Agender Natasha, Aromanticism, Asexual Clint, Asexuality, F/M, Polyamory, aromantic natasha
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-21
Updated: 2015-03-20
Packaged: 2018-03-14 11:36:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3409130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/summoner_yuna_of_besaid/pseuds/summoner_yuna_of_besaid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A commission for rubato asking for a fic about a relationship/deep friendship/romance between asexual!Clint and agender!Natasha.  An incomplete exploration of an idea.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

There are some things, little as they are, which once they happen, change all things.  Every aspect, every detail of the life involved is no longer the same, must be examined in retrospect for signs of how _it_ was always there, of how it slinked along under the surface.  When did it start?  When was it born?  How long did it go unnoticed?

Clint tosses a stress ball towards the ceiling, watches it ascend, descend, catches it – and he wonders.

“Did you sleep there?”

Taken by surprise, Clint twists his head and in the corner of his vision, upside-down, stands another Avenger.  For a moment his eye is off the ball, but just a moment – he turns his gaze back in time to catch it, quick as ever.

“No, I went to bed,” He tells Natasha, who eyes him with That Look that says she doesn’t believe a word he says.  “Really.  Had trouble sleeping so I came back down here around – I dunno.  Early.”

Not that she should talk.  He glances over as she opens the fridge and notices her black sweater, the blue jeans.  “You wore those yesterday.”  He leans back again, eyes back on the ceiling and the ball.  “Bad night for you, too?”

“Not for me.”  Natasha shuts the fridge, and he hears her footsteps grow steadily closer until she takes a seat on the opposite side of the couch from his head.  As if it were instinct, his body moves to accommodate her the moment he realizes what she’s doing.  “Pepper.”

“Ah.”  He moves to sit up, after catching the ball midair one last time.  “Tony do something stupid?”

“Doesn’t he always?”

Clint nods.  He eyes the cereal in her hands for a moment, but decides against getting up and getting some.  Too much effort. 

“So,” Natasha began between mouthfuls.  “What’re you thinking about so seriously so early in the morning?”

Right.  _It_.  And how it could change things – is changing things – might change things… forever.

“It’s nothing,” He says, quickly leaping to his feet while trying not to seem like he’s running away.  He doesn’t think it works.  She always did see through him.

* * *

Like many problems with the Avengers, it all started with Tony.  Granted, this time the man wasn’t even trying to be troublesome, and likely had no idea his actions had been the start of anything at all, but the fact remained – if Tony hadn’t brought home that ridiculous magazine, _it_ would never have occurred to Clint at all.

“Apparently, I’m cheating on Bruce,” Tony had said as he’d flipped through it.  Breakfast time at Avengers Tower, on the rare day that there were no fires to put out, no kittens caught in trees.

“Feet off the table,” Steve shoved said man’s feet as he walked by.  Tony, readjusted, flipped to another page and continued.

“Aren’t you the least bit curious?”  He’d asked, grinning that debonair way he could somehow manage to pull off even in greasy jeans and a worn out rock concert tee.  “Here, they claim Thor’s been shacking up with all sorts of starlets – oh, hey!  Look, Pep!”  Tony held the magazine towards her. “Apparently you’ve gone and made us your harem or something.”

“Isn’t that basically true?”  Rhodey had asked from the other side of the table. 

Clint grinned as he worked.  He’d been half paying attention, mostly letting his friends chatting act as background noise as he worked on his arrows.  The fletching on one needed replaced… he set it aside.  On another, the nock was chipped off, as if someone had stepped on the end… probably had.  It was done for.  The third looked alright, a little worn and rough, but serviceable.  It went in the keep pile.

“Wow, look at this.”  Tony whistled.  Over his shoulder, Pepper leaned in with a conspiratory smile, and even Steve was sneaking glances from the kitchen counter while all the while pretending to disapprove.  “Apparently Natasha and Clint are engaged.”

Clint about poked himself in the eyeball with the arrowhead.  “ _What?”_  His response apparently merited even more laughter.  All around the room, Avengers were giggling at him like gossiping schoolgirls, as Clint stood and stormed across the room towards Tony.

“Don’t take it out on me!  Blame tabloid journalists.”  He let Clint snatch it from his grip, hands held up in surrender.  “Besides, there are worse things you can be accused of in print.  Trust me.”

“He knows,” Pepper added.

“I really do.”

But he just kept staring at the proof on the page, the words in little black ink staring back up at him.  “Why in the world would they think we’re engaged?”

“It’s the tabloids, they make all kinds of things up to sell papers.”  Pepper told him.  Then, her lover had had to go and open his big mouth.

“Granted,” Tony had said, “There’s usually a kernel of truth in these things.   A tiny kernel, but.  Still.”

Brow furrowed, Clint turned to the man.  “What’s that mean?”

“Oh, come on,” Tony replied, reaching up to snatch his magazine back.  “You’ve gotta admit, the way you two act?  I mean, Natasha, she’s subtle, just barely less icy to you than the rest of us, but you?”  He chuckled.  “You’re practically in love with her.”

_In love with her…_

_In_ love _with her…_

“Holy shit,” He’d said, mouth dropping open.

“What?”  Tony, glancing from Clint’s stunned expression to Pepper’s irritated one, shrugged.  “Was that a revelation?  Did he not know that?”

Clint had turned and sped from the room, ignoring the couple’s background bickering, those four words playing on repeat through his head.

* * *

The problem is, he doesn’t know.  Doesn’t know if… if it, really is true.  Is he in love with her?  In love with Natasha Romanoff, the Black Widow?  His best friend, his teammate?  Maybe.  The problem is, he has no idea how to quantify this, how to define the standards for “in love” so he can decide if he matches them.

Because yes, it’s true, she lights up every room she’s in.  All the Avengers matter to him, but none of them matter like her.  She’s special, always has been.  Clint prefers solo missions, or missions with Natasha, opposed to anything else.  Even missions with Cap, which are a great time most days.  And yes, they’ve known each other longer than any of the other Avengers have.  And, of all of them, he probably knows her best.

He knows her favorite things to watch on TV are shitty reality TV shows and celebrity contests; he knows she loves Italian food but it never settles with her gut well; she sleeps in the nude, unless it’s cold, in which case, she sleeps in her underwear – (a lesson learned in a very strange and unfortunate early morning mishap with the smoke alarm in the Tower).  So, yeah, he knows her, and of all the Avengers, - hell, most of the world – she probably knows him best.

Is that what love is?  The person who knows you best?  But, friends know you.  And so there’s the rub – the different between the two, the difference created by that tiny two letter word.  “In”.  “In love”.  What does it mean?

And so he thinks on it, dwells on it, day after day since.  Because he can’t put it out of his head.  Every time he wakes up in the morning, to the moment his head hits the pillow that night, he wonders – am I in love with Natasha?  And he wonders if it matters.  He wonders if she’d feel the same way.  He wonders if anything would really change whether he did or not.  He wonders if he’s losing his mind.

It never occurs to him, to actually talk to her about it, because the thought is terrifying.  For a moment he has this weird sensational wish that he could talk to her, the Friend, about this, because his friend Natasha is who he always goes to for these things.  But this isn’t the kind of question he can ask of Natasha his “friend”. 

If he can’t ask her, then who?

* * *

“Thanks for coming at such short notice,” Clint tells him.

“Anytime!”  Rhodey grins at him as he sits down.  “Besides, anybody promises me Red Lobster on the Avenger’s dime, I’m there.”

Clint chuckles.  “I see how it is.”  They take a moment to exchange pleasantries and look over the menu before Rhodey prods him about it.

“So, then,” The airman begins.  “What’s this about a big dilemma you’re having?”

“Well,” Clint shrugs, suddenly not so sure about this idea he had.  “I have this, uh.  Problem.  That I think you might be able to help me with, maybe.”

“Sure.”  The man sets his menu aside.  “So what is it?”

Clint, eyes downcast, starts fidgeting with his fingers on the table.  He’s always been an energetic person.  He can’t stop moving, can’t stop thinking.  There’s just so much, so much energy running through him, so much happening in the world around him, that sometimes he feels like he’ll never have enough time for it all, or that it’s all happening too much and might drive him mad –

“You and Tony.  And Pepper, too, right, you’re – all three of you are – “

“Yeah,” Rhodey nods, a hand clasped around his water glass.  “We’re together.”

“As a trio, or more of a –?”

“We’re not just sharing Tony between us.  He already thinks he’s the center of the universe enough as it is.”  Rhodey gives a chuckle.

“Right.”  Clearing his throat, Clint lowered his gaze and tried again.  “You were friends with Pepper and Tony beforehand.”

“Of course.”

“Then, you three… starting fucking? Or – okay, that was really badly put.”  Face flushing, Clint sighs.  “Um.  I mean.  Then you got together.”

Rhodey, whose beginning to look torn between laughing or shaking his head at Clint’s anxious fumbling, smiles.  “Yeah.  And… ?  Is there a question?”

“I… I guess I was wondering how you knew.”  He started.  “About wanting them that way I guess.  I mean, how did you realize that friendship – wasn’t enough?”

Rhodey’s eyes narrow thoughtfully, his gaze turning away.  “Hmm.”  He’s quiet for a minute, and during that fretful time Clint’s half-convinced he’s about to have the Iron Patriot break his nose.  “It’s not that friendship isn’t “enough”.  People like to try and put these things into levels, like romantic love is somehow more than ‘friendship’.”

“So, it’s not?”

“No,” Rhodey shakes his head.  “It’s – different.  It’s … hard to explain.”

“Please don’t let that be your final answer.”

Quirking an eyebrow, Rhodey sighs.  “Just give me a minute.  Look, it’s – it’s different for everybody.  But there just comes this moment when you realize that somebody is really special to you.”

“Wow, thanks, Rhodes, that was really helpful.”  Clint gives a groan and his arms slide forward, leaving his chin to rest disdainfully upon the tabletop.  “I really have no idea how I feel.  Shouldn’t I know that?  Shouldn’t comprehending your own emotional state be a normal thing?”

“Maybe if you let me in on this, I could help more.”  Then, the man’s gaze is drawn away, his eyes widening in recognition.  “Hey, look, it’s Natasha and Pepper.”  He’s just about to stand and wave them over, - “Hey, ov-“

Clint practically leaps over the table – actually, he did more of a dive around it, grabbing at Rhodey’s mouth and arm in a panicked, desperate attempt to keep him quiet before Natasha could hear him.  The man’s confused eyes go wide and he reacts naturally as an airman would, and they tussle for a moment before the both of them get ahold of themselves… hopefully before anyone in the restaurant snapped a photo of Col. Rhodes and Hawkeye brawling in the Red Lobster.

In the aftermath, they are left with Clint sprawled over the other man, his knee between Rhodey’s thighs and his arm wrapped around his neck almost intimately.  “Y’know,” Rhodey begins.  “If I had known from the start this conversation was about me, I’d have had a much different tone in mind.”

“Ha, ha,” Clint whispers, glancing up carefully to look around.  “We’ve gotta get out of here before Natasha sees us.”

“And why is that?”

He sends the man a heavy look that tells him everything he needs to know.

“Look – we can’t just sneak out.  She’s going to see us.  And besides, if you don’t want her to think something’s up, don’t you think running away from her is a pretty big give away?”

“Stop being so logical!”  Clint quietly shouts at him.  “I can’t stand up, she’ll see me – here, scoot back, help me sneak under the table –“ With a lot of cussing and scuffling, Clint manages to squeeze his way under the table and back into his booth seat, scooting so low he’s barely above the table.

“You look ridiculous.”  A thoroughly disshelved Rhodey tells him, hands intertwined and elbows on the table in a very judgemental posture.  “I’ve heard love made fools of people but this proves it.”

“Shush!”  Clint replies quickly.  “Don’t say the l word.  I’m still thinking about it.”

“You know, Clint,” Rhodey leans forward.  “If you’re having this much of a dilemma over it, don’t you think you have your answer?”

Maybe.  Possibly, Clint thought.  The problem was… he just wasn’t sure.


	2. Chapter 2

Clint has very little experience in his life to go off of in reference to this “love” thing.

There was this boy, once.  Back in the circus, before SHIELD, before everything.  Another may-as-well-be orphan who practiced tricks with him.  Clint was the archer, the boy the target.  The old “apple on the head” trick.   When he was a little older they graduated to the spinning wheel, a kid barely ten years old spinning round and round as another stupid brat aimed a fucking weapon at him.

_Whose idea was that_?

He hurt him, once.  Not bad.  The arrow just nicked the inside of his arm, a little cut that quickly became a scar.  Clint had felt so terrible, he couldn’t stop looking at the bandage afterwards, cursing himself for that one moment of imperfection, that one second of relaxation that could have cost so much more than a little blood.

The boy – Clint couldn’t even remember his name, but he remembered how he laughed at Clint’s concerned eyes.  He’d shrugged the whole thing off, said it was bad luck, hadn’t worried even a little about Clint’s young shaky hands.  He couldn’t get him to understand he was going to get hurt, Clint was going to hurt him because he wasn’t good enough, and just as he’d started to cry, the other boy had kissed his tears away.

Was that love?  Trusting an idiot with an arrow aimed at you not to kill you?  Crying because you hurt someone you care about?  Why the fuck was this so hard anyway?

* * *

 

“You awake?”

Clint grunts from under the arm he has thrown over his eyes.  “No,” he says, and then gives an “oof” when a pillow is tossed at him.

“Wake up,” Tony demands.  “We’ve got a mission.”

“Mission?” Slowly, Clint sits up from the couch.  The TV he had on all night is still on behind him, some early morning talk show on.  Did he fall asleep?  He doesn’t think so.  Maybe he was just dozing. 

“Yup.”  Tony, sitting at the bar behind the couch with a cup of coffee, turns towards him.  “Important mission.  Rise and shine, Katniss.  What’s the scoop with you and Red?”

The world stops.  “What?”

“You are really coherent early in the morning.  A real talker.”  Tony takes a sip.  “I asked what’s up between you and Anna Karenina?”

“Nothing’s up.  There’s nothing.  There is no up.”  Clint leaps to his feet, moving quickly through the room to the fridge.  If he’s going to deal with Tony, he needs food.  And a pot of coffee to himself.  He digs through the fridge, grabbing the bagels off one shelf, and the cream cheese off another.  But when he snaps open the container, he sees someone had used all the cheese but the bare scraps and left it.  “Aww, cream cheese…”

“You’re a terrible liar.  Were you really a spy?”  Tony spins around on the stool.  “I feel like you weren’t a very good spy.”

Clint closes the fridge, tossing the empty container in the trash as he opens the bagel bag and stuffs a plain bagel in his mouth.

A ‘ping’ rings through the room; Tony and Clint both turn their eyes towards the ceiling.  A screen on one of the nearby walls flairs to life, and Nick Fury’s face appears on it.

“Barton,” He starts, all business.  “Report in 0800 hours.  Got a mission for you.”  The screen flashes, and cuts off.

Both men stare at the screen, somewhat surprised at the abrupt message.  “I was kidding about a mission,” Tony insists.

* * *

At a minute past 8:00, Clint appears in Fury’s office, bow in hand.  Fury looks… well, furious.

“There’s a situation.”

“Isn’t there always?”  The man turns, his dark look cutting through the archer’s lackadaisical attitude.  Even Fury’s usually more light-hearted than this.  Clint’s eyes narrow.  The grip on his bow tightens.  “What’s up?”

The man hesitates, which is also unlike him.  He glances away.  “It’s Romanov.”  Fury tells him.  “She’s been – detained.”

The world stops spinning.

* * *

 Nobody stops Natalia Romanova.

Not even Clint, though he’s the only one who’s technically ever done it.  Natasha insists to this day he beat her fair and square, but Clint’s not convinced. He’s sure the only reason he caught her on that mission in Russia so long ago was because she let him.  She was tired; he could see it in her eyes.  Tired of the fighting, tired of the KGB.  She’d let herself be caught to end it all.  He’d offered her another option.

He doesn’t see that as a defeat.  In a sense, it was another victory.  Natasha escaped the KGB with her life and that was a triumphant success few others could claim.  She’d survived so much, things Clint knew of, things he suspected, things she murmured of in her sleep.  Nothing could take her down now.

It was a covert operation, Fury tells him.  Something for SHIELD that the Avengers hadn’t known of, for the usual reasons.  That much he understands.  A reconnaissance mission in Latveria, for reasons Fury wasn’t about to tell him.  Clint honestly didn’t care about the why, or the how, or the details of how it came to be, just how the _hell_ she ended up in _a Latverian prison_.

* * *

“How the hell did she end up in a Latverian prison?”

Fury’s eye come level with his.  “We don’t know.”  He says.  “We received confirmation that she’d been captured and imprisoned to await trial two hours ago.  She’s being held in the capital on espionage charges.”

“She’s an Avenger, a superhero – won’t there be, I don’t know, some kind of media or public image fallout?”  He’s grasping at straws, heart pounding in his throat.

“Probably.  On the flip side, the fact that an Avenger was caught on intruding on Latverian soil isn’t going to look good for us.  That doesn’t matter – leave the fallout to Cap.”  Fury turns, facing the window.  “You’re the only one I trust to get her out of there.”

“Why not send the whole team?”

“This isn’t an alien invasion.”  Fury jibs.  “This is a political firestorm.  We need her back on American soil, and all evidence of her ever being in Latveria destroyed, before this can get to the trial stage.  Or it’ll be one hell of a mess.”  He turns back.  “So, suit up.  You’re going to Latveria.”

* * *

 

_There’s a trail of blood soaked into the snow._

_He follows it, all too aware that it’s much too upfront to be anything but a trap.  Little pinpricks of red turned pink across the pristine white field, leading drop by drop to an alleyway.  Dead end.  She’s there, an arrow struck through her thigh, red blood and red hair spread across the snow.  She’s dragged herself here, collapsed against the bank, crimson locks spread like a halo around her sweat-laden face._

_She’s beautiful.  Sharp, glistening, blood-soaked, like a knife fresh from a kill.  Half lidded eyes meet his.  Her chest is heaving, and he sees she’s not just been injured by him – there’s two gunshot wounds too.  She’s running from everyone._

_Their eyes meet, and he sees in hers the same exhaustion, the same grey gloom that once reflected in his eyes, years ago, when he was trapped beneath a circus tent and struggling to breathe._

_Their eyes meet, and he lifts his hand to his quiver.  Her eyes settle, satisfied, almost relieved for it to be over.  Her hand trembles, trying to reach something, an unconscious wish for another hand to hold in these last moments.  His heart breaks for her.  He sets the arrow on the nock, draws.  Her eyes close._

_He pulls back, aims up, and shoots the KGB agent on the roof through the heart._

_When she realizes the arrow’s flown and she’s not dead, her eyes open again.  He’s got his bow at his side, looking down at her, and for a moment, hesitates._

_He extends to her his hand._


End file.
